


I Am Forcibly Removed From The Comfort Zone

by dummythetragedy



Series: Halloween 2017 [9]
Category: Gravity Falls, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Being A Good Boyfriend, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Poetry, Some Fluff, Some angst, no cats were harmed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummythetragedy/pseuds/dummythetragedy
Summary: Wirt likes his Halloween evenings like he likes his coffee; Not filled with horrifying monsters. Dipper doesn't seem to get that.





	I Am Forcibly Removed From The Comfort Zone

**Author's Note:**

> Stale memes amirite.

“I’m not going,” Wirt states with a finalizing cross of his arms.

Dipper plucks the small flashlight from between his teeth and jams it into the already overflowing bookbag on the table, “Okay.”

Wirt fumbles at the concession, arms falling limply back to his sides, “I- Oh… Okay. Good.”

Dipper grits his teeth as he struggles to close the uncooperative zipper. With a curse, a grunt, and a plea, he finally manages it, swinging the successfully sealed bag onto his back.

“Um,” Wirt rushes to regain his footing in the argument, before his exceptionally reckless boyfriend can go off gallivanting into the woods on Halloween night, “A- And neither are you.”

He looks insultingly unruffled at Wirt’s declaration, excitedly bouncing around him and towards the front door of the Mystery Shack, “And leave Lazy Susan’s precious little kitty to die? I don’t think so.”

“He’s not precious. Or little. He’s hairless, weighs thirty pounds, and only moves twice a day. Susan has at least fifteen other cats that are better than him, and, if not, this daring rescue can wait until the morning,” Wirt speeds through the sentences, strategically using his significantly longer legs to race in front of Dipper and block the door with his immovable, gangly body, “Dipper. This is madness.”

He snorts, “Okay, one, you’re a complete drama queen. Two, I’m going to tell you the exact same thing when I come back in a few hours, totally fine. And with Mr. Ricky Ricardo in my arms.”

Wirt resolutely stands his ground, pointedly stomping his foot, “I’m not just going to sit here for hours on end and let you get eviscerated by some eldritch abomination!”

Dipper looks at him like he’s an especially imaginative grade schooler, “You’re ridiculous. Now, I’m going to go save a cat from a goblin, and you’re going to stay here where it’s safe and- and bake some spooky cupcakes. I’ll be back before you finish piping the frosting. Alright?”

“Not alright,” Wirt replies, affronted, “I- I’m not your helpless househusband, you know. I’ve done my fair share of monster hunting.”

With a scoff that makes Wirt puff up like a hooded seal, Dipper grabs his shoulders and spins them in a clumsy half circle, promptly throwing the door open after the unexpected twirl.

“You blew out a candle, babe,” He grins, and takes off like an absolute _idiot_.

Wirt splutters, tripping over himself, the doorframe, and oxygen in his haste to reach the careless ‘ _adult’_ who is much too old to be acting this impulsively. Dipper is patiently (infuriatingly) waiting for him, leaning on the trunk of one of the trees that naturally mark the line between semi-civilization and the forest. Wirt pauses at the bottom of the rickety porch steps and tenses.

The night air, while in actuality only moderately nippy, chills him to the very bone the second he takes notice of it and the all encompassing darkness that comes with it. The pathetic amount of light shining through the open door of the lit inside offers no comfort to the unending blackness. It’s suffocating.

He’s drowning. They’re both drowning and freezing and he can’t do _anything-_

“Hey!” Dipper calls out, shattering the scene.

Wirt shudders, taking a step back, “Hey yourself. And have fun getting murdered. I’m going to go make cupcakes.”

While fishing a few objects out of the book bag, Dipper distractedly waves, “Okay, I have to go now. Goodbye, Wirt.”

Shards of ice ram themselves in between each of his vertebrae, “Wait!”

He doesn’t.

Wirt easily manages to smother the whimper that attempts to leave his lips, but the single, furious, “ _Fuck,_ ” that escapes him is inextinguishable. Before terror can consume him in entirety, he throws caution to the wind and runs after Dipper.

Regret hits him instantaneously. The wide smile Dipper gives him as he catches up doesn’t make him feel better in the slightest.

“Look at you-!”

“Don’t,” Wirt requests, heart hammering in his chest, “What exactly are we looking for?”

Dipper hands him a slim flashlight, smile not dimming, “A hobgoblin.”

Wirt grips the light like it’s his life source, rushing to turn it on, “L-Like in Midsummer Night’s Dream? Puck?”

“Yeah,” He answers, having trouble with his own, much older flashlight, “Kinda. But less-”

“Puck is infamous for splitting a lost young couple up in an enchanted forest,” Wirt hisses, innards seizing up, “Are you _joking-_ ”

“ _Wirt_ ,” He has the audacity to laugh, “Relax, man. We’re not a lost young couple. We’re a young couple who know exactly what they’re doing and where they’re going. Also, I really doubt this guy is as clever as Shakespeare’s Robin Goodfellow. He just stole a morbidly obese cat from an old lady.”

That is not the point and he _knows_ that, “Actually, I don’t know where we’re going. _You_ do. So, if Puck splits us up, I’m screwed.”

“He won’t.”

Wirt glares at him right as he’s finally able to turn his outdated flashlight on, illuminating Wirt’s anger while simultaneously blinding him.

Dipper’s good mood loses its impish spark upon receival of _the look_ , “... And if he does, I’ll find you. Just, y’know, don’t go anywhere if you lose me. I’ll come to you. Everything’s going to be fine; You might even have fun.”

As much fun as Sylvia Plath’s time in shock therapy. _I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses, and my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons-_

“You’ve done this with me before, remember? Like, _several_ times,” Dipper manages to be both rude and encouraging, a true talent of his, “Nothing’s different.”

He could argue that tons of things were, in fact, _very_ different. However, Wirt has long since learned when to just let things go when it comes to his boyfriend’s single-mindedness. Both of them have their individual, unfortunate qualities; For example, Dipper can sometimes be a tenacious ass, while Wirt is always a pretentious one. But they _accept_ each other and suck as a _unit_ and that is the _only_ reason Wirt is staying by the psycho’s side as they head deeper and deeper into the threatening brush- Wait.

“When did we start walking?”

“After I gave you your flashlight.”

Ah. Right. Great. _Wonderful._ Wirt begins to hyperventilate. Dipper is a bad boyfriend.

B-But it is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious. Who said that? Wilde. Oscar Wilde. What else did he say?  Lots. _Tons_. Uh- Symphony In Yellow. Le Jardin. The True Knowledge-

 _Thou knowest all; I seek in vain. What lands to till or sow with seed. The land is black with briar and weed,_  
_nor cares for falling tears or rain._  
  
_Thou knowest all; I sit and wait. With blinded eyes and hands that fail, till the last lifting of the veil_  
_And the first opening of the gate._  
_  
_ Thou knowest all; I cannot see. I trust I shall not live in vain, I know that we shall meet again-

Wirt trips over a large rock and collides with a _much_ larger one, nose first. With a yelp and a jump backwards, he’s unable to get a single complaint out about the stinging pain before he gets a good look at what he’s just broken his face on.

While not exactly the scariest thing, aesthetically, the one eyed, triangular statue that is very clearly outstretching its hand is more than a little horrifying in its ominousness.

“Did I just get cursed?” He shakily asks, slightly surprised that Dipper has yet to say anything about their encounter with solidified unsettlement.

He’s met with heart-wrenching silence. Wirt turns to look for his partner, compass, only chance of survival, etcetera without success. His lungs stop working.

This. Is. _Fine._ Really, he lacklusterly tries to convince his failing organs, it’s fine. He- He’ll just have a nice chat with the creepy statue until he can be rescued in true damsel in distress fashion. Yeah.

He struggles to take in a breath with his uncooperative body. Restlessly shuffling his feet, he looks to his equilateral, still companion.

“I don’t suppose you know where he went off to?” Why Wirt phrases that like an answerable question, or why he’s talking to it at all, really, he does not know.

He sighs at the expected lack of response, shifting his gaze over to his flashlight. He wonders if it would be in his best interest to turn it off while he waits, to conserve the battery. Very bravely, he switches it off. And switches it back on a millisecond later, upon hearing the petrifying sound of stone grinding.

Wirt aims the light at the fancy figure, breathing loud and eyes wide. It hadn’t gotten any closer to him… Had it been pointing before? No. Definitely not. Right, time to go-

The unmistakable sound of Dipper screaming derails his train of thought quite efficiently.

The noise speedily digs up a long forgotten reserve of courage, instantly motivating Wirt to spare one last look at the stone finger and then fall into a sprint in the suggested direction. Thinking too hard about his actions is off the table, because with thinking comes regret and with regret comes rethinking, and there isn’t any time for that when Dipper could very well be getting filleted alive.

Wirt feels like he’s been running for hours, but he isn’t the most athletic, so chances are it’s only been about three minutes of mad dashing through his panic. And not a single sign of his careless, probably dying boyfriend. He fleetingly worries that maybe taking directions from a sentient rock was not the smartest thing he could’ve done.

Another minute ( _hour_ ) passes and Wirt is all out of adrenaline. His body forces him to come to a full stop before he passes out, because then the pair would be in a whole other level of pickle. From bread and butter to kosher dill.

 _God_ , he’s going to start dry heaving. Exercise, as it always is, was a mistake. In all likelihood, ragged gasping for air isn’t the stealthiest way to breathe in the midst of a monster hunt, but-

“He looks _nothing_ like me. Are you- Not gonna lie, this is super insulting, guys.”

Wirt turns his head to the left and sees a scene far less gruesome than the one his own mind had been conjuring up.

Dipper is sitting on the ground, back to a tree, and rope wound tightly around his torso and the tree’s trunk. He has three hairy, gross creatures all about two feet tall in stature standing around him, all with varying looks of confusion displayed in their eerily humanesque features. One of the little monsters is holding up a cat- _Susan_ ’s cat- up, right next to Dipper’s annoyed and not at all terrified face.

“Sorry to be the one to break this to you, but you didn’t get a baby, pal. You got a sphynx, and not the cool kind-”

Wirt and Dipper make eye contact. Wirt’s first instinct is to give him a well deserved, furious, ‘ _I told you so’_ look. Dipper replies with an eye roll, followed by a, ‘ _We’ll talk about this later just save me already’_ expression. Wirt crosses his arms and retorts with a, ‘ _Do you see a candle, because I certainly don’t. I’m not capable of_ real _monster-hunting, remember? I’m sure you’ll figure it-_

A hobgoblin pinches Dipper’s cheek _hard_ , pulling a sharp, pained noise from his lips. Wirt no longer finds their argument all that important.

He frantically looks around for some sort of weapon. Settling for a thick stick, because, well, he’s in a forest, what other options does he have, he takes a minute to practice a few swings, hyping himself up as he does so. If Maya Angelou could overcome all odds to do great things, then, dammit, so could he! Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

Before Wirt can completely psyche himself out, he tiptoes towards the hobgoblins and holds his breath. He can feel Dipper’s eyes on him as he prepares to attack.

 _Attack_? He can’t do this. This is _crazy_ -

The stick jerks forward in his grip with a mind of its own, hitting all three of the tiny goblins directly on the head in one, powerful swing. Wirt blinks as both the creatures and the cat fall anticlimactically to the ground.

“Sorry, are you secretly in a professional baseball league? What the _hell_?” Dipper’s grin is suddenly infectious, and enough to bat away the

Wirt lets out a breathless laugh, tossing the makeshift bat aside, “What? These little guys? Easy peasy. How’d you ever manage to get caught?”

Dipper doesn’t look appropriately offended, smile widening, “Guess I should’ve stayed at the shack and made cupcakes.”

Wirt gets on his knees to untie him, pulse finally slowing back to a normal rate, “Duh. I monster hunt, you bake. That’s how this relationship works.”

“I don’t know what came over me,” Dipper doesn’t _quite_ giggle, but it is adorably close.

Wirt helps him to his feet, dusting the dirt off of him because he knows for a fact that the man has no qualms with keeping the grime on him for the rest of the night, and possibly the week.

Dipper considerately grabs his hand, “Are you ready to get the hell out of here?” _Yes_.

Ricky Ricardo uncharacteristically jumping up and darting away with a quickness that shouldn’t of been possible at his size, steals Wirt’s freedom to answer that question honestly. He absolutely does _not_ tear up.

“And leave Lazy Susan’s precious little kitty to die?” Wirt’s voice cracks with exhaustion, but at least some of the all-consuming fear he’d started the night off with has subsided, “I don’t think so.”

Dipper proudly squeezes his hand.


End file.
